


Closer To God

by confusedkayt



Series: Closer To God [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Descriptions of wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Implied touching of an unconscious person without their express consent, M/M, Medical, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, The general creepy messiness of canon, The grimmest kind of fluff, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4886653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedkayt/pseuds/confusedkayt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the Season Three finale.  Will finds himself crowding into Hannibal's space.</p><p>Inspired by some meta on granpappy-winchester's tumblr regarding the likelihood that Hannibal will need Will to initiate touches at this stage in the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter discusses the treatment of wounds inflicted in the finale and the experience of having some of them in some detail. Nothing gorier than the series. I feel like I should leave a blanket warning for bad people who do disturbing things but that ought to be taken as read in this fandom, I reckon. :)

Hannibal’s hand is light on his shoulder - the good one, my god the other is going to be a mess. He’ll be lucky to raise his arm after this. No more houses with high shelves. He chuckles - stupid, that hurts like hell and yeah, his face, his _face._ How had he ignored it at the time? He’s not ignoring it now, that’s for sure, stinging with salt water, stiff with cold. He can feel the ragged edges of it catching and dragging on one another. God.

 _Hannibal._ He pushes up with his good arm, lifts himself up enough to twist and look and there it is, a thick square of gauze taped to Hannibal’s belly, already wet through with red around the tape.

Hannibal’s mouth does something tiny, complicated. Not pleased, but not displeased either. He used to think he knew what every little movement of that face meant to telegraph but he’s tired, so tired, and he’s out of practice. And Hannibal, Hannibal has changed. He almost laughs again, a habit, but he stifles it. It would hurt. It would be bitter.

“It will keep,” and Hannibal’s quiet, a quick flick of his eyes downward to his wound, corners of his mouth curling just enough to reassure. He raises a syringe, a small one - the needle’s a delicate butterfly, probably meant for pediatrics. “Your cheek needs seeing to. I will apply a local anesthetic.”

It’s almost a question. There is a question in his eyes, at least. That much he can still read.

Hannibal’s lips press thin when Will doesn’t respond. “I preferred to wake you, before I administer it,” he says like it’s a gift, and it is. Will doesn’t want to laugh. He frowns, though, he can’t help it, and Hannibal flinches, minute, a mere crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

“No,” and Will’s voice is forceful even as it hurts to shape the vowel. The creases deepen and he wants to erase them because, “it’s not that. It isn’t. Just…” It hurts something fierce, the effort required to shuffle himself table-side but it’s not far, just a little. Just so his knee bumps up against Hannibal’s leg so Will can feel him there, at least. Present.

He wants to say more but it hurts and the hurt is gone from Hannibal’s face. The look there now is very soft, and another day Will would touch it, say something. Do _something._ Today, he just relaxes back and manages, “Ok. Do it.”

Hannibal takes him at his word, leans over him and his hand is gentle around Will’s jaw. Holding him stable. The sting of the needle hardly registers.

Just as he’d feared, he drifts. At least his knee is warm.


	2. Inhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wakes up alone.

Will wakes. He’s cold. He tries to rise and panics for a minute because he’s caught, tied up somehow, but it’s just a blanket, tucked tight around his feet and into the crevasse of the couch cushions. There’s a fire roaring away in a big brick fireplace, and his heart beats hard because the logs are burned down, even the big ones. He’s been here for a while. Alone?

He tries to struggle out from underneath the blanket but it’s hard, his arm tied firmly to his chest and he swallows down panic. Not helpful.

He gets his feet underneath him and takes stock. He’s wearing pajamas, a little too big for him, the strings of the pants tied in a long, hard knot. His feet are bare, and the sight of them turns his stomach a little. They’re bruised all to hell. Of course they are. They took the full force of his weight against the water.

He stands, and it hurts, but it’s a distant kind of hurt. His head’s muzzy, and he remembers, now. Hannibal murmuring about morphine, the way Will had grabbed at his hand and helped to push the needle into his own arm.

Hannibal. Terror washes over him again. His head’s muzzy, sure, but it’s quiet in here, too quiet, and the fire is low.

It’s an agonizing process but he makes his way to the door in front of him. Nothing but a dining set in that room, heavy and ostentatious. He’s got to learn to quit chuckling - it tugs at the stitches, stiff in his cheek. He resists the urge to pet at them. Hannibal is Hannibal. They will be even and precise.

There’s another way out of this room, light pouring through it. Will makes his way there, quick as he can, and has to stop and clutch at the doorframe because he’s in there, in a kitchen, standing in front of a stove and the relief and _rightness_ of that is briefly overwhelming. It tears a sound out of him, wordless and too loud.

Hannibal twists at the shoulders and no, he’s not standing, he’s propped on a stool. It’s… inelegant, and something in Will’s stomach twists, hot and painful. Hannibal's feet are bare. The strings of his apron are marred with red.

“Hello, Will,” and the warm voice and the warm eyes are too much, overwhelming. He swallows hard.

“You’re bleeding,” and his voice is too loud and too rough. His throat hurts, abruptly, and he puts a hand to it.

Hannibal narrows his eyes a bit but doesn’t comment. “A little,” he says, mouth still lifted at the corners. “I will need your help to stitch the entry wound, but I assure you, it is not serious. Our friend the Dragon was an unlucky shot.”

He swallows, swallows again, but the words won’t come. He nods, finally, and Hannibal’s ghost of a smile comes back for that. Good.

“This soup will, alas, not be very good,” Hannibal offers, with a sly tilt of his head, “though this time it is for your sake. Salt would not do you any good.”

Will’s feet are drifting forward without his permission, step after step, across white tile until he’s right up next to Hannibal. Careful, got to be careful. Makes his way to the good side, the left. He shuffles forward until he’s close enough that their arms just brush at the elbow.

Hannibal angles his head, a welcome, but doesn’t comment, smoothly switches the spoon he is using to stir to his right hand. His left arm dangles down and Will leans in, just a little. Their fingers brush on each inhale.

It doesn’t feel quite real, not quite, but it’s enough to unclench the knot in his belly. Hannibal is silent, and Will can’t make himself look at him, not yet. “It smells good,” he offers, finally, and dares to glance over at Hannibal sidelong.

Hannibal blinks, slow and long. “Yes,” he says, and keeps stirring.


	3. Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served.

The silence was comfortable, and then it was heavy. Eventually, it’s too much like a dream. Will shifts his weight a little, and Hannibal moves his shoulders just so. Will’s close enough to hear Hannibal’s too-hard breath and that’s entirely the wrong kind of real. “I’ll set the table,” and his voice is all wrong.

Hannibal cants his head toward Will, just a little. “It will be a simple task, today.”

His throat is thick and he wants to stare at the floor, like he used to. It was another life. Now, he looks at the wall behind Hannibal’s stock pot, as though that’s any better. “I thought you would want…” he starts, but the words dry up before he finishes.

“I do,” Hannibal says, calm but too quick. He’s staring at the soup. A breath. Two. “I had planned a different menu.”

It’s not like Hannibal to be so terse, but Will’s blurred into him, the warmth of him, and knows the rest. He’d had plenty of time to think about what he’d serve Will the first time with no glass between them. “I know,” he says, too quiet, but Hannibal is close enough to hear him. Will is close enough to hear the controlled breath that he takes. Will wants to offer more. “Thank you,” he manages, “for cooking.”

Another deep breath, enough to press Hannibal’s shoulder into Will’s own. “It is my great pleasure,” and there’s a ghost of more at the end of that sentence.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. Will stumbles away and immediately regrets it, but he’s moving for the cupboard at least. He can’t make himself look at Hannibal, but he can speak. “Bowls and saucers here, and water glasses and spoons for the table. Do you need anything else?”

“This is enough,” says Hannibal, and it hangs heavy between them.

“You can have more,” Will says to the dishes in the cupboard.

“Can I,” says Hannibal, and that’s heavy, too. Will reaches over to clasp his shoulder without conscious thought. This stupid, crushing, heavy silence, but Will won’t do him the discourtesy of pretending they are talking about bread. Two breaths, three, and then Will squeezes Hannibal’s shoulder and lets go, gets the water glasses. Hannibal’s stirring is a metronome, louder in his head than it can possibly be in life. He fumbles with the drawers, looking for silverware. His first guess is wrong and Hannibal leans forward, pulls one open. Will’s fingers brush along his when he reaches for the soup spoons.

He should say something, but he doesn’t, just turns on the tap and fills their glasses, begins the too-long trek to the dining room. The table seems impossibly wide and Will gives in to the impulse to place one glass at the head and the other at the lefthand corner. Close. A long, shaky breath as he sets the spoons. Another, as he finishes the task. His journey back to the kitchen is slow and it’s ridiculous, the warm rush of relief that Hannibal is still there, stirring. The dishes are heavy white china edged in gold. Of course they are. He pulls out two bowls and the heavy saucers they will sit on.

Hannibal liberates a ladle from a drawer in front of him, rises from his stool to rinse it. Will is not certain if he should watch or look away and ends up standing, wordless. Hannibal closes the tap. The look he gives Will is new, open and pained and happy. He wants to reach out but Hannibal turns back to the pot. “Butter bean soup, fortified with potatoes and spinach.” His voice is absent and Will runs cold with it. “Frozen stock, I’m afraid.” A pause. “Chicken,” and there’s a hint of a laugh there instead of that terrible nothingness.

“No veal in the safe house?” Will asks, and Hannibal glances back at him, quick and smiling.

“Puckish boy,” and Hannibal’s voice is warm now, though he has turned back to the soup pot. “We will have to forego the garnish, I am afraid.”

Hannibal’s hands are careful as he ladles soup to saucer. Will has the terrible desire to knock into his arm, mar the perfect pour of soup to bowl, not one drop out of place. He settles for moving toward the counter, picking up a pepper grinder. There’s a clear glass grinder full of pink rock salt as well. He passes the pepper to Hannibal. “Here. You don’t need to suffer with me,” and the turn of his smile hurts his stitches.

Hannibal looks at him, expression blank but his eyes are liquid-warm in a way Will is not used to. At this moment, God how he wants to be. “Not in this, perhaps,” he allows, and takes the grinder. Will wordlessly retrieves the salt and passes that, too. Hannibal doesn’t touch him when he takes it. Will swallows, busies himself with picking up his own bowl. Hannibal’s sigh tightens up Will’s shoulders.

He brushes past, out into the dining room, and takes his place at the side of the table. Hannibal’s mouth quirks. “Seated at the left hand of the devil?”

Will snorts. “The right is out of commission.”

Hannibal dips his head, but his lips are still quirked upward. He sits, and Will shifts over in his seat before he can tell himself not to. Their feet brush, their calves. Hannibal doesn’t move away, and Will stares down at his soup.

The silence is heavy, but conversation is beyond him just now - superfluous, in a way words never have been between them. He fumbles for his spoon and dips it into the soup, the clatter of handle on bowl loud and clumsy and stupid. He’s halfway to lifting it when Hannibal’s fingers graze his wrist, light, there and then snatched back again. “Take care,” Hannibal murmurs.

He drops the spoon back into steaming soup and raises his head to look and Hannibal. His face is blank, his eyes avid. “Thank you,” he mutters, and he’s not sure why, exactly, but Hannibal inclines his head.

He can’t help it. He reaches out to snatch at Hannibal’s hand before brain catches up with body and he pulls back, fingers clenching on nothing. He pulls his hand back but Hannibal has raised his arm, darted forward to let his fingers light, just barely, on Will’s. Will swallows hard and tangles their fingers together, brings them down to rest on the hard wood of the table. He wants to stare at them, entwined, but makes himself look at Hannibal. His tongue is heavy in his mouth.

Hannibal’s eyes are cracked open, blurred. Will squeezes his fingers and breathes when the pressure is returned. “You are quite welcome,” and Hannibal’s voice is jagged as his eyes.


	4. Stitches

Hannibal insists on clearing the dinner dishes himself. It knots his gut up and it’s ridiculous, he’s ridiculous, but he can’t stop himself from hovering in the kitchen doorway to watch. Hannibal doesn’t acknowledge him, but his shoulders are tight. Will would like to believe it’s the pain.

He forces himself to stay still and silent while Hannibal goes through the ritual of rinsing the china, ladling the extra soup into a bowl, placing it in the fridge. The pot will go in the dishwasher, unlike the delicate china, but Hannibal scrubs at it nevertheless.

Will’s limbs are heavy in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the damp stain on Hannibal’s back. “You’re bleeding,” and at least he held back until Hannibal has settled the stock pot into the dishwasher.

“You repeat yourself,” and Will flinches, though the harsh words are made soft by the fond tone.

His eyes drift to the floor and he allows himself to close them for a little while, but they are jarred open when plastic is pressed into his head. He looks up, and it’s Hannibal, close and inscrutable, or trying for it. He can’t hide his shatter-warm eyes. “Let us put your mind at ease,” he says, mouth suggesting a smile.

He smiles at Hannibal, starting as it pulls the stitches. He’s being stupid. He fumbles the case open. A simple first aid kit. There are alcohol wipes, a thick needle, sturdy thread. “Where’s the anesthetic,” he mutters.

“I don’t need it,” Hannibal says, calm, and Will knows that’s true, but…

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he stutters. Hannibal’s mouth crinkles, displeased. Will holds his gaze. Honesty is the best policy. “Not like this.” He swallows. “Not tonight,” and the raw quality of his own voice startles him.

Hannibal is startled, too. His face is utter blankness for a long moment. “Dear Will,” he says, and Will’s stomach twists with a violence.

He closes his eyes, swallows, and then something brushes his palm. Hannibal is holding a capped butterfly needle by the tube, letting it just touch Will. “I have measured the dose out,” Hannibal says, almost soothing. Will gathers the needle up and squeezes Hannibal’s hand.

He gently presses Hannibal’s shoulder to seat him on the stool, and kneels on the floor beside him. Hannibal shifts, almost a fidget, and Will swallows hard, settles himself by grasping one leg of the stool and taking a breath. “Your sweater,” he says, and Hannibal obediently reaches over to ruck it up, baring a makeshift gauze dressing. Will eases it up and off, and there's the red ragged wound.

His training takes over. Hannibal was right; it’s reasonably clean, as these things go, even if the edges are ragged from Hannibal’s exertions and the pounding of the sea. “This will sting,” he says, absently, and Hannibal does not dignify him with a response. Hannibal doesn’t tense when Will strokes at him with an alcohol wipe, though it must burn something fierce. Finally it’s clean enough for the needle. “Here we go,” Will warns, and Hannibal’s arm swings toward him, just a fraction of an inch, but the motion is checked.

Hannibal is motionless as Will plunges the syringe with his thumb. He stays on the floor, counts to a hundred, to let the drugs do their work. “How does it feel?”

“Go on,” says Hannibal, which isn’t an answer, but Will has no wish to try his patience. He measures out a length of black thread and lets autopilot take over, gentle, practiced, even stitches just like they teach at the academy. His arms feel heavy, pushing through molasses. He isn’t sure how long it takes.

“All done,” he mutters, finally. It feels like an anticlimax, like something’s undone. He brushes his fingers, gentle, against the row of stitches and can’t convince even himself that his purpose is to check his handiwork.

Hannibal is still while Will rises. The silence is a presence. He doesn’t want to break it.

Hannibal’s eyes fall on Will’s fingers. Blood, Hannibal’s blood, all over his hands. He has the sudden, absurd urge to stick them in his mouth. “Alcohol,” he mutters, frowning at them.

Hannibal cocks his head, just slightly. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak. _What a shame,_ Will hears, anyway. He swallows heavy and turns to wash his hands.


	5. Sleep

Hannibal has given him more morphine but brushing his teeth is still an ordeal. He’s as ginger as he can be, but there’s no helping the way the brush jostles the gash that once was his cheek. His teeth taste like blood. It makes him nauseous. It feels right.

There is a long, dark hallway between the bathroom and the bedrooms. Hannibal has taken the master. The door is part open. There’s no movement behind it. Will stops in the hallway but the pounding of his own pulse is too loud, drowns out Hannibal’s faraway breaths. “Ridiculous,” he mutters at himself and regrets it when the word pulls at his cheek.

He takes dragging steps to the guest bedroom. He opens the door. Two steps in. Three. It’s quiet and empty and his gut twists and he’s breathing too hard and he won’t do this. _He doesn’t have to._

His mind’s in the backseat again, muzzy with morphine and pain and the cares of the day, but his body makes reasonably quick work of the journey to Hannibal’s door. He knocks it the rest of the way open with a hip.

Two steps in and he can sense Hannibal looking at him even through the dark. “Hello, Will,” he says, and the welcome-warm of his voice is almost frightening.

“I can't,” he starts, but even this Hannibal is not inclined toward charity. He will have to ask.

He won’t. Not with words. Not tonight, this weird, quiet, fairytale night where every word might break the spell and that’s the morphine talking, of course. He makes his way to the bed, perches on the side. If Hannibal is bothered by his clumsy scooting away from the edge he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t go far. Just close enough to feel the warmth, hear the breath. A realization - Hannibal’s left the left side open, the blankets turned up in welcome; Will’s eyes burn and he has to close them, force himself to take a steady breath.

He braces his good arm behind him, hoping to ease himself down without jostling his shoulder or Hannibal. A rustle, the darting touch of a hand at his shoulder, there and gone again. “You can,” he says, and his voice sounds far away. A heavy pause. “Please,” slips out of him, and he can’t think about how he sounds.

“Yes,” says Hannibal, and that’s almost rude, for him, but he’s in motion and the way his hands cradle Will and ease him down to the bed, smooth the covers over him, is so gentle, so gentle.

It’s only once he’s down that he realizes, “your side,” he murmurs, hushed even in his distress.

“Well-stitched,” Hannibal reassures, and settles himself. It’s better, here, the heat of him, the noise. Still, Will wants more. Tonight, this night, he will take it. He slides his hand over, slow and noisy against the covers until his hand brushes Hannibal’s. In for a penny, in for a pound; he laces two fingers into the tangle of Hannibal’s. Hannibal is silent.

The morphine and shock and exertion are doing their work, dragging him out of consciousness. He turns his head on the pillow, facing Hannibal. “Goodnight,” he whispers.

A pause he can feel and then Hannibal whispers, “very,” like a secret, and squeezes Will’s fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! Wow. That just came tripping off the keyboard. I had in my mind that both of them would be shocky, exhausted, and a little dreamlike after all they've been through on this day. I hope the comparatively light dialogue conveyed that and didn't just seem.... wrong. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the matter.
> 
> I am considering making this into a series, but feel like this particular story ends with Will's wakefulness. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> OH MAN. I just mainlined the whole series. I guess I have a thing for sharply-dressed older men named Hannibal? 
> 
> In case you are a regular reader of mine, this does not represent an abandonment of my Pacific Rim fic so much as something that HAD TO COME POURING OUT OF ME RIGHT NOW.
> 
> Like everyone else, I was kind of destroyed by the finale. This will have a few of these short chapters, no more than 5 I reckon. I may well post several more tonight as I polish them up. If you have thoughts, suggestions, want to discuss - please feel free to drop me a line in the comments; I'm just dying to answer. I have been dying to discuss this rich series but none of my pals were willing to follow me into the dark. :)


End file.
